


Burned

by Goodluckdetective (scorpiontales)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-28 05:24:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19387393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorpiontales/pseuds/Goodluckdetective
Summary: Honestly, this whole mess wouldn’t have happened if Hell had properly informed all their staff that Anthony J. Crowley was off-limits.Some demons try to attack Crowley, Aziraphale gets himself burned playing knight in shining armor and Hell really needs to switch to high-speed internet.





	Burned

**Author's Note:**

> TAKE THIS STUPID THING 
> 
> ENJOY MAYBE
> 
> I'M ON TUMBLR YOU KNOW WHERE TO FIND ME

Honestly, this whole mess wouldn’t have happened if Hell had properly informed all their staff that Anthony J Crowley was off-limits. Heaven had done their homework. They informed all their angels that Principality Aziraphale should, in the exact words of Archangel Gabriel “not be fucked with.” If Hell had done the same, then perhaps both angel and demon could have been spared a bit of a mess. But Hell unfortunately still used dial-up for all of their emails which half of the staff did not check (1). So a handful of demons thought that attacking known traitor and fun-ruiner Anthony J Crowley was both perfectly acceptable and entirely wise.

That’s how Aziraphale ends up knocked to the ground in an alley, separated from Crowley by a wall of hellfire. How exactly it all happened isn’t quite clear, he was sure it involved being hit rather hard in the back of the head, but it took only seconds to understand the dire straits they were both in. Through the flames, Aziraphale sees three demons walking towards Crowley, who is knocked out onto the pavement. One of them holds a sword that appears to glow gold and Aziraphale stiffens at the sight. He knows that type of blade. It’s hard to forget the few swords on Earth that could kill a demon (2).

Aziraphale thinks of calling out for Crowley but thinks better of it as he sees the main demons’ pace. He’s likely the leader, given how the other two hang behind at least a solid meter. Aziraphale doesn’t recognize him, not that he could recognize most demons other than Crowley, but his mortal form is that of a short young man in a roadwork vest two sizes too big for him. He walks towards Crowley with long unsteady steps, like he’s taking care to make sure Crowley is actually knocked out.

He would not be walking that slow if he knew Aziraphale was awake so Aziraphale takes care to not make any sudden movements to alert him otherwise. Aziraphale instead tilts his head just a centimeter to look at Crowley. His sunglasses are cracked, Aziraphale can see that much, and his hair looks ruffled. Probably hit in the back of the head, given there’s no sign of blood or cuts on his clothing. Not hard enough to kill him, but enough to knock him out long enough to do it properly. And to set a wall of hellfire to keep Aziraphale from interfering. 

If Aziraphale knew all of this fuss could come of taking the scenic walk through the park, he would have just called a cab.

Aziraphale considers his options. He has nothing to pull Crowley out of the hellfire with. Crowley may wake within a second, but it seems unlikely. Aziraphale could try to fight the demons off himself, but that would be difficult with the wall of fire separating him from the fight proper. His fisticuffs, while excellent given his angelic training, aren’t very useful if he cannot actually grab his targets. Given the current situation, the future lying in front of Aziraphale is quite grim. The demon will stab Crowley with his stolen holy sword, forged itself with holy water. Crowley will die. And Aziraphale would be forced to watch it all happen, helpless behind a wall of holy fire that some poor mortal has likely called the fire department about by now.

This isn’t an acceptable outcome. Anything that involves Aziraphale standing in a bookshelf alone for the first time in 6000 years will never be an acceptable outcome. So he reevaluates. He thinks of another handful of half-thought through solutions. He could throw something at the demons approaching, but that will only slow them down. He could try to bless some holy water himself to use as a weapon, but the possibility of hurting Crowley is too high. What he needs is an escape route. A way to grab Crowley and run. He could use one of the many power lines to transport them both to his flat where there enough sigils to keep unauthorized demons from following. But unless he can grab Crowley, he can’t take him with. And then he would be back at the first outcome, the unacceptable one.

The demon is getting closer. Aziraphale from his spot on the ground looks at Crowley. Within the hellfire, the demon does not stir. He is so close, just a few feet away. Even if Aziraphale could rouse him with his voice, Crowley would not wake in time to properly save himself from a swift end. If Aziraphale could just grab his shoulder-

It hits him much like being hit by a truck. No, a truck is too small, perhaps a cruise ship is a better metaphor. The solution, once out of grasp and hard to perceive becomes clear in an instant. It’s not a great plan, sure, far from it, but it’s not the worst he’s ever had (3). Plus it has the potential of letting them both walk away from this situation. And that is enough for Aziraphale to try it, caution be damned. 

The demon is in front of Crowley now, raising up his sword. He’s clearly never used it before with his grip and Aziraphale wonders if they’re teaching demons anything these days when it comes to handling weapons (4). He could cut himself with that posture. With speed Aziraphale rarely uses, he crawls over to the flames, far away enough to not be lit by accident but close enough that he could reach in and grab Crowley if he wanted to. He grits his teeth, knowing transporting them out of here will be hard after the stunt he is about to try and whispers a prayer.

“Please let this work,” he says under his breath. Then he turns to Crowley, Crowley who is still out cold, his sunglasses cracked, about to be stabbed by one of his own. What Aziraphale says to him Crowley doesn’t hear. He is too lost to the fog of unconsciousness. But the demon above him hears it and is startled enough to pause his planned execution.

“If this doesn’t work, forgive me.”

It is then, to the demon’s other astonishment, that the angel reaches his right arm into the hellfire itself. Like it is nothing, like it won’t kill him. He watches the angel reach into his own death, grab Crowley’s shoulder and vanish.

When the demon drops his sword, he does, as Aziraphale predicted, cut himself given his poor grip. His friends are smart enough not to try to pick up the sword themselves after he melts into a pile of goo. Instead they decide to swear off the assassination nonsense and steal some traffic signs instead. Which frankly, they should have done in the first place.

* * *

Aziraphale does not so much land in his flat as he crashed into it. Both him and Crowley crumple onto the floor of his living room in a sprawl. For a brief moment, Aziraphale is so thrilled that his plan actually worked that he does not notice the smell of brimstone or the pain. But once he kneels, or at least attempts to, and feels the horrific pain in his right hand, that he remembers exactly how he pulled off this particular gamble.

He takes a deep breath before looking at his hand. On the positive side of things, it is still there, which honestly is much better than he’d been expecting. But it is burned alright, flesh bright red and covered in soot (5). And Aziraphale would be a fool indeed to not notice how the veins past the injury can be seen through his pale skin glowing red. It looks almost like embers are under his skin, burning away there, the remnants of a bigger flame. Or perhaps the start of a new wildfire given how that glow is spreading with a speed up his arm.

Aziraphale knows what comes next. They teach you about the dangers of partial hellfire burns in heaven. He knew exactly what he was risking when he reached into those flames and he’d do it again. But he can’t say it doesn’t turn his stomach as he looks down at his right arm and ponders the fate in store for him over the next three days.

That is, if he lasts that long.

“My head is killing me,” Crowley says from behind him. Aziraphale has to give him credit; his timing is impeccable. “That intern has one hell of a swing (6). Right Aziraphale-”

Aziraphale wants to respond, truly, but it’s hard to remain awake. The pain is settling in now, no longer localized. He can feel it creep up his arm, spread through his veins. Like pinpricks of endless cigarette burns going up his side, working their way down his spine.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley grabs his shoulder, gentle, and Aziraphale knows he’ll notice any moment. “Those interns didn’t scare you too bad- _no._ ”

Crowley reaches for his ruined right hand then stops as Aziraphale falls sideways, losing the strength to even kneel. Aziraphale stares up as Crowley shakes his shoulders. His sunglasses are off and Aziraphale can see yellow eyes peering down at him. They look terrified.

There are few things in the world as horrifying to witness as a demon’s pure unfiltered terror.

“Shit shit shit, bloody hell, fuck-” Another hard shake. It isn’t helping, but Aziraphale can’t exactly blame him, all things considered. It’s not like normal human first aid will do him much good in this case. “What in the devil’s name did you do?”

“Isn’t it obvious,” Aziraphale wants to say, but the burning pain is beginning to become too much now. In what may be his last moment of lucidity, Aziraphale forces a smile. Tries to sound calm. Like he can be what Crowley needs right now.

“Spot of bad luck, I’m afraid.”

It is with those words that the pain gets far too much to bearand he loses track of anything that isn’t the sensation of being burned from the inside out.

* * *

Hellfire and holy water are surprisingly different at the end of the day. At least, when it comes to how they kill.

It only takes a little amount, really. Sure, if you want it to be quick and a sure thing, more is always better. But just a drop (or in hellfire’s case, a burn) can do all the hard work of consuming a supernatural being. Holy water just works faster. 

You see for holy water, it is far more rapid. If you’re, let’s say, a demon and you get sprinkled with holy water, the first sensation you will get is the burning pain of it, an open sore wherever it made contact. It can be as small as a pin prick. And then, well. It’s not pretty. If you don’t end up a puddle on the floor, you will be licking your grotesque wounds until at least the next century. 

Hellfire is different. For one, small burns don’t always kill; it’s just when they do, they work in a manner so hellish, that it is likely where hellfire got its name. The smallest burn can do a lot of damage, if you are a particularly unlucky angel. But unlike holy water, it is slow. That tiny burn, just the smallest scorch, can linger and spread. Like an infection almost, to use human terms. Over the course of hours, a hacking cough starts, a fever that causes angels to feel as if they are perhaps falling themselves. Shivers followed shortly after and rapidly, much like the plagues that humanity once feared, a once perfectly healthy supernatural being becomes steps away from death’s door (7).

It poetic almost. Demons, you see, drown in their own filth upon contact with holy water. Angels, on the other hand, burn.

Aziraphale knew this. But it was different to experience the sensation than to hear about it. One could attempt to fathom boiling hot temperatures, but to experience them? It was impossible to describe. 

He’s in it now, the worst pain he has ever felt. It’s all consuming, overwhelming, and the very nature of it makes it impossible to perceive the world around him. The best way to describe it, he thinks, is as if he has been placed in lava itself, left to drown in the pits of hell as they bury him in hot sand. He doesn’t know how much time has passed, he cannot tell if he is still on the floor of his flat or if he has been transported somewhere else. All he knows is that it hurts. That and there is a voice in his ear, low and desperate.

“Aziraphale.” Aziraphale knows this voice, but he cannot place a name to it at the moment, too consumed by the sensation of fire. Is this what the martyr’s felt, when heaven watched them burn? How did they have any faith at all, with this kind of agony? “Aziraphale, can you hear me?”

He trusts this voice, Aziraphale thinks, from within the flames. How, he has no idea, but it reminds him of the comfort of his bookshop, even as he burns alive. It is something to hold onto. Maybe that is what the martyrs kept to carry them through their ordeal; the relief of faith.

“I need to get help.” The voice continues. “I have an idea. Called the witch about it; she thinks it might work. But I have to leave-”

Aziraphale makes a noise at that, one he can barely hear over the ringing in his ears. He does not want to voice to leave. He is a man dying in the desert; leave him alone and he will perish among the grains of sand. 

“ _I have to_ ,” the voice pleads. “I have to make sure she gets it right. I’ll be gone for less than an hour.” He feels someone put a wet washcloth on his forehead. It doesn’t help; the water evaporates upon contact. The voice swears. “You cannot die on me while I’m gone, understand? You need to hold on.”

Things come into focus for a brief moment. Despite the flames, despite the pain, Aziraphale’s mind is able to conjure up a name, how he got here, the world outside of the fever. Crowley. This is Crowley. Crowley is the one next to him, the one who tried in vain to place a washcloth on his head, who is now clasping Aziraphale’s good hand in both of his, begging him not to disappear. 

He tries to open his eyes but it hurts too much, so instead he coughs, making sure his voice is clear enough to reply. 

“I’ve waited 6000 years,” Aziraphale says, voice raspy but strong enough to make out. “I can wait an hour.”

That is the last thing he remembers for a long time.

* * *

After what feels like another eternity, he hears voices again. And another one, one he has not heard in perhaps two full years. One that reminds him of makeup and a a poor excuse for a motorcycle. 

“He looks a sight, dear. You think this will work?”

“I don’t know. But it has to,” Aziraphale recognizes Crowley this time. He sounds so very tired. “The witch says he has to drink it. I’d give it to him myself but if he coughs it up-“

“Oh I know, you’ll become a right puddle. Don’t worry, I can do it. Just stand right there.” Aziraphale feels someone sit down next to him and a hand touch his forehead. They pull their palm away as soon as they make contact. “Well, that is some fever. Hello dearie. It has been awhile. I’m afraid I need you to drink something for me. I think it will help. Got it myself from the Vicar down the street. Perfectly nice bloke-”

“Please cease with the chatter if you please.”

“Sorry, sorry.” Aziraphale feels what seems to be a flask pressed to his lips and recoils away from it. The idea of drinking anything now is too much. He has burned for so long he must be no more than ash at this point. If he dares drink anything, he will wash away.”

“Now, now, don’t be too stubborn with me,’ the voice that is not Crowley says. “Your friend went to quite a bit of effort to get this for you and he’ll be rather upset if you don’t actually have it. And I have things to do other than waiting on fussy angels. So drink up.”

It takes a few more tries but eventually Aziraphale relents. The water does not wash him away, but instead provides the first bit of relief he has felt in hours. The fire dies down, replaced by an ache that makes Aziraphale feel all 6000 of his years on Earth. 

“He’s looking a little better,” The voice that is not Crowley says. Aziraphale is sure he could place it if he wasn’t so tired. He feels them press their hand to his forehead and this time the hand does not flinch away like it has been burnt. “And his fever is gone now.”

“You think it will last?” Crowley sounds...worried? It is hard to place his tone without seeing him.

“How am I supposed to know? I don’t know a lick about any of this stuff. But I would like to think so, at the very least. Now if you excuse me, I must get back to my work. I’m making hand carved soaps now. They have fortunes in the center when you’re done using them.”

“Do you write them yourself or do you pull them from the internet?” Now this sounds more like the Crowley Aziraphale adores. Fond, a little mischievous, and not afraid to encourage a little harmless trouble. It’s a tone he fell in love with so many decades ago, a tone of voice that informed him that one of them had not forgotten Aziraphale’s books.

Aziraphale falls in and out of consciousness after that.At one point he awakens and he

is sure he has fallen. The context of the situation slips his mind and he is positive that when he wakes proper, it will be as a demon. That the feeling of the host he can still sense is merely phantom pain. 

“I’ve fallen,” he says to no one in particular. It is a lament not intended conversation. But someone answers him anyway, holding his hands tight in their own

“No you haven’t. You never could. You are better than the lot of them.” One of the hands wipes the sweat from his brow.

“I’m alone,” Aziraphale says, still convinced of his fate. There is a hissing noise and when Crowley responds, his voice is fierce.

“You are not. Our side remember? I’m here. Now rest.”

Aziraphale does.

* * *

After what feels like an eternity later, Aziraphale awakens with a lucidity he has not possessed in a long time.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley sounds hesitant, like he’s had this conversation before. Aziraphale supposes he has; he just can’t remember it (8). He shuffles just enough so his head is propped up on the pillows. They smell like wine and a hint of brimstone.

“Has it been that long since I’ve been with it?”Aziraphale’s voice comes out raspy. Like he’s been screaming. Which is a thought he doesn’t particularly want to linger on, given he feels comfortable for the first time in what might be days.

“It’s been three,” Crowley doesn’t sound much better. His voice is hushed, cautious, like he’s afraid of being too loud. Like any noise above a whisper will shatter something precious. 

“Sorry for making you wait.” Aziraphale opens his eyes despite the effort and looks up. Crowley is next to him on the bed, his hand still in Aziraphale’s sweat damp hair. He looks tired, worn, skinner than usual. It would worry Aziraphale dreadfully if it wasn’t for the fact Crowley was also wearing one of the red sweaters Aziraphale bought him for Christmas (9). 

“How do you feel?” Crowley says. Aziraphale considers this, taking stock of his body for a moment. He’s tired, yes, and his right hand hurts something terrible, but there is no longer an all consuming fire licking at his heels. 

“Much better,” he says. He smiles at Crowley, the soft fond ones that he only has when he’s particularly pleased at coming up with a good term of phrase. “For a demon, you are rather adept at pulling off miracles.”

Crowley doesn’t smile. That alone tells Aziraphale how bad this must have gotten and his heart sinks, for the pain he has likely put the demon through but can’t remember. Sure, Aziraphale may have been the one physically hurt, but Crowley was the one who had to sit by and watch. Both of them know that the pain of waiting, not knowing when the end can come, can be the most vicious of wounds. 

“I had to call in some help for this one.” Crowley gestures to the bedside table where Aziraphale can see two items. The first is a flask with a cross on it, something that would make Aziraphale’s blood run cold if it wasn’t for the stack of mints next to it, a brand favored by Madam Tracy. 

“I owe that woman some expensive tea,” Aziraphale says, fond. Sharing a body often makes one fond of another person, no matter how different their interests may be. 

Crowley nods. “I gave her a bottle of my vintage.”

“That works too.” Aziraphale turns his head to look at his right hand. It is covered in bandages, but it is still there which is far more than he was expecting. He can remember someone pouring water on it, water that soothed an endless burn, and decided vintage wine or not, he’s still buying Madam Tracy at least a fruit basket. “I see I kept my hand.”

Crowley takes in a shuddering breath. It sounds like a snake’s hiss.He tends to sound more like a snake when he’s upset, Aziraphale has found. “You’re an idiot. You could have lossssst your life.”

“You were about to lose yours.” Aziraphale wiggles the fingers on his right hand and while it hurts something terrible, he’s glad to see they respond to his commands. He turns his head back to Crowley and is unsurprised to find tears in those yellow eyes. He reaches up to brush one away with his good hand. “I had a choice, my dear. I could watch you die or I could try something foolish and potentially die in the process. I decided I favored the result where we possibly both survived.”

Crowley’s hand, which has been running through his hair this entire time stills. His other hand, which has remained firmly on Aziraphale’s shoulder, grasps it tight. Not enough to hurt, but with a strength that implies he’s holding on for dear life. “You couldn’t have known it would work. That you’d be able to get away. That if it lingered, I would find a way to stop the flames from consuming you entirely.”

“Of course not,” Aziraphale says, nonchalant. For being so very smart, Crowley can sometimes be so very dense. His hand brushes away another tear then cups Crowley’s cheek. “But I know you well enough to be sure that if there was a way, neither heaven nor hell would stop you.” 

Crowley is still for a moment. When he speaks next, he sounds like he’s out of breath. Aziraphale has a way of doing that to him. “I’m pretty sure that’s sacrilege, angel.” 

“If having faith in you was sacrilege, God herself would have flung me down centuries ago.” 

“Don’t joke about that.” But there’s a smile on Crowley’s face now, a small one, but it’s there. Just peeking through the three days of worry and fear. 

“I almost died. I think I can joke about whatever I please.”

“You’re hand is going to scar you know.”

“I thought scars were sexy. Your side made that a thing back when the Vikings were about. (10)”

“No we didn’t. ”

“Perhaps, but I’m sure you took credit for it all the same.”

Crowley leans down to give him a kiss on the head. It feels nice, though Aziraphale knows he likely smells from all that feverish sweating from earlier. When he feels better, he decides, the first thing he is going to do is take a nice long shower. Few things sound so refreshing after the sensation of being aflame.

* * *

Crowley is right; Aziraphale’s brush with death does leave him with a scar. His entire right hand is entirely discolored from the incident, a shade of pinkish red that is fairly noticeable. He covers it for a bit while it’s still healing, but eventually he stops entirely. Technically he’s a warrior angel; there’s no sense in being ashamed of them. Especially in the ones he gained doing something worthwhile. 

Crowley, Aziraphale thinks as the demon grabs his hand as they sit on a park bench, feeding the ducks, was the most worthwhile cause he could think of.

**FOOTNOTES:**

  1. To be fair to Hell’s minions, all official notices were written in comic sans and written in red text on a deep violet background. And honestly, who could reach such an eyesore.
  2. There were five total, and two were at the bottom of the ocean, long lost after Noah’s flood. This blade in particular was one usually kept in Hell as a victory of triumph but in actuality had just been stolen from a merchant who had no idea of itstrue rarity.
  3. The worst plan Aziraphale has ever had is difficult to define as he has had a multitude of terrible plans, but it is likely a tie between getting crepes during the French revolution or running into the burning library of Alexandria for a scroll for his collection.
  4. Hell decided to cut weapons training due to “budget cuts” in the 18th century. There were no actual budget cuts of course, despite creating capitalism Hell didn’t follow its rules. The actual reason they cut weapons training was due to the sheer amount of demons killing each other with their training in petty squabbles. They instead limited weapons training to demons who had proven themselves moderately competent and left it at that.
  5. There are plenty of other descriptions of this wound that would be suitable to display the horrors of the damage done, but for the purposes of solely telling this story, we do not need to get into all the descriptive words that are best found in medical journals.
  6. Crowley generally did not know random demons he ran into, but it was hard to forget Hell’s interns as the dark council had been trying to foist them upon him for decades. Crowley had always refused saying his operations were just far too complex for interns. This, of course, was a lie
  7. For the record, Death’s door is rather pleasant. He has a rather nice doormat featuring some lilies to great visitors,
  8. He has had this conversation before, though Aziraphale usually passed out right after Crowley said his name. On one notable occasion, Aziraphale had stayed awake long enough for Crowley to say “I love you. I have loved you for centuries and I will love you for centuries more. So please believe me when I say, I am not worth this. I will never be worth this.” Crowley of course, admitted this, because he was fairly sure Aziraphale would not remember said conversation but that was beside the point because if a demon makes a love-stricken confession and no one but him remembers, did he really make it at all? (Yes, he did).
  9. Said Christmas sweater had a nice little snake pattern on the front that was entirely tacky. Aziraphale thought it was the best thing he’d ever found on the internet since sites for used limited edition books.
  10. Hell did not make scars sexy. Scars have always been sexy because God thinks individuality and triumph over death is rather fetching. That and a nice pair of shoes.



  



End file.
